


when there's nothing left to burn

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The band is broken up and Ryan Ross is officially no longer Spencer's problem, but it still doesn't work out like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when there's nothing left to burn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for airgiodslv's no_tags challenge in 2010, set six months after the Panic! At The Disco split.

"I'm just saying," Brendon says. "I don't see why we're wasting time and gas on this. Dude, this is not your _problem_ anymore. This is the _definition_ of 'not your problem anymore.'"

Spencer doesn't reply at once, just taps his fingers against the steering wheel. "Should we just leave him out there, then?"

"Yes."

"Brendon."

"He could call someone else. Someone whose problem he actually is."

"He could get eaten by coyotes."

"It's not like he's staked out in Death Valley. Well, not technically."

"I don't want to go," Spencer says. "Seriously, I don't. He could impale himself on a cactus or something, though, you know he could."

Brendon gives him a long sort of measuring look, warm and exasperated at the same time. "You shouldn't have to go, dude."

He sighs lengthily and lets it drop after that, though; Ryan's inability to fend for himself in any situation or milieu is fairly inarguable.

They drive in silence for the next hour or so, the radio crackling in and out of reception. Spencer likes it that way - the road ahead is straight and narrow, one lane each way, now that they're in the park, and he doesn't have to think about driving, about fighting with Brendon. He can just keep his hand on the wheel and think about other things. A couple of times, out of the corner of his eye, he catches Brendon turning his head to say something, his mouth opening and then closing again, like he's thought better of it; like he knows it would be pointless to try.

When they pass the first campground, Brendon cocks his head in question.

"No," Spencer says, a sigh. "That would be too easy."

"Of course it would."

It takes them another hour to get to the right one. They can see Ryan waiting outside the turn-off long before they get there, a small, dark, spiky shape against all the bare brown ground. From this far away he looks almost like an organic part of the desert itself, a solitary scarecrow relative of the Joshua trees scattered out across the plain around him.

Closer, the illusion fades, and he's human and Ryan again; Ryan with his shoulders hunched like he's braced for a fight, still wearing some sort of plaid blazer, despite the heat, and grandfatherly brown leather shoes clearly and totally inappropriate for the rock and dirt around him. He's wearing a hat, some sort of straw boater. Spencer guesses he should be grateful for that.

"At least he's not wearing a fucking sweatervest," Brendon says almost fondly, and Spencer grins wryly sideways at him. He pulls up on the side of the road, as far over as he can on the narrow shoulder, and puts the window down, letting Ryan walk the rest of the way to meet them. They both watch him trudging slowly up the roadside, the gravel crunching grimly under his feet.

The first thing Ryan says when he gets in earshot is addressed to the dusty ground, not directly to Spencer.

"I didn't want to call you. Yours was just the only number I could remember."

"Wow," Brendon says, drawing the word out. "I think we have a new record, Ross. Well done."

Ryan's eyes narrow, but he doesn't shift his gaze to Brendon. "I was talking to Spencer."

"Oh, I know," Brendon agrees. "I just thought that you were going to lead with, I don't know, 'Hi', or 'Hey, man,' even if 'Thanks for driving all this way to pick me up because I'm a dumbass who fucked up his car and lost his wallet' was probably too much to hope for."

"Kind of a mouthful," Spencer points out, when Ryan doesn't say anything. His face is pink with heat and frustration, his long shaggy curls limp under the broad brim of his hat.

"Yeah, that's what she said," Brendon says, on cue, because he's kind of a sucker for a lame set-up. Even though they've had pretty much this exact exchange about a hundred times already, one or the other of them providing the set-up and the other delivering the line, Brendon still grins like he's said something brilliant and hilarious, his eyes wide-open and black and shiny with amusement, and a million white teeth on display. His gleeful dirty smile always makes Spencer smile back helplessly, contagious as a yawn.

When he looks belatedly back at Ryan, Ryan's thin shoulders are curled in further, and he's scowling harder at his shoes. "My phone was out of battery," he says, stubbornly sticking to his point. "I got to the pay phone and I couldn't remember anyone else's numbers without it. So."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Come on, it's getting late. Let's get out of here."

Ryan's eyes finally leave the dust, slanting up to catch Spencer's eye in the driver's mirror instead of straight-on. It's almost like he's asking for permission. The circuitousness of it is frustrating and somehow vaguely apologetic at the same time, like Ryan hasn't noticed that they've already driven all the way out into the middle of fucking nowhere, and he's only now calling in a favour. Ryan will take shameless, oblivious advantage of people without ever noticing that he's doing it, but he hates actually asking for help or being consciously beholden to anyone. His face is damp with sweat, mouth pinched.

"Get _in_ ," Spencer orders, and finally, just as gracelessly, Ryan pulls open the back door.

-

The next hour or so is not pleasant.

At first, it's not too bad; Ryan sits silently in the backseat, turning his hat around in his hands, a glowering presence that quenches any possible conversation Spencer might've had with Brendon. He doesn't let himself think too much about the fact that Ryan had the same effect on the drive in, as dampening in absence as he is in person.

Brendon refrains from saying anything for nearly fifteen minutes, which is about five more than Spencer had been betting on. "So, Ross," he says conversationally, like he can't help himself. It's been 'Ross' for most of the past year. "What the fuck were you doing out in the desert, anyway? Chasing a spirit coyote? Got lost on the way to a sale at Forever21?"

"Urie," Ryan returns, in a flat, combative tone that implies that the name itself is an insult. "It's pretty much none of your business."

"No, no, I feel like it is," Brendon pursues. "Since, you know, your quest to become one with the great snake has dragged me, and, not incidentally, Spencer, a few hundred miles out of our way to rescue your helpless little damsel self. You're welcome, by the way. Your apologies are totally over the top, it's embarrassing."

In the rearview mirror, Spencer watches Ryan's mouth harden. "Hey, I promise, I wouldn't've subjected myself to your company unless I had pretty much no other option."

"Right, right, I forgot," Brendon says, nodding. The bright, earnest tone is the one he uses when he's about to say something unforgivable; Spencer flicks a warning glance sideways, but Brendon ignores him. "We were your only hope, Princess Leia. Don't you have any other friends? Did they get sick of your bullshit, too?"

Spencer braces himself, but Ryan only says "Well, you know, Jon's in Chicago. Do you guys keep in touch? I guess not. And Alex's in New York, and Z's recording. I didn't feel I could interrupt."

"Mr Sensitivity," Brendon says, sucking in his breath as if he's hugely impressed, and ignoring the comment about Jon. "I guess it didn't occur to you that Spencer and I were in the studio, too. I know how hard it is for you to keep track of more than one thing at once."

"The things I don't care about, yeah," Ryan agrees. "You know how it is."

Dusk is coming on; the sun's almost gone, and the sky is that light, smoky pale blue, faintly touched with pink along the horizon, that turns slowly and imperceptibly greyer until it's suddenly dark. The streetlights are already out - they're spread far apart, down the long, straight road, and barely noticeable yet.

Spencer pulls over, before Brendon has time to do more than crane his head around to glare at Ryan. "My mom totally used to do this with me and my sisters," he says tightly. "Pull over and refuse to keep driving until everyone stopped fighting. Sometimes she'd make us get out on the side of the road and pretend to drive off, if we really needed some time out."

"I've got nothing against making Ross walk," Brendon says cheerfully, turning back around. "In fact, I think that's been my vote since before we even left L.A."

"Fuck you," Ryan says almost distractedly, and then, amazingly, he laughs a little. "This is so grade school. I actually forgot about your mom doing that, Spencer. I remember her doing it to us once or twice."

"That time we had a marker fight in the backseat," Spencer agrees.

"I still say you started it."

"I _finished_ it."

"No, your mom finished it," Ryan says. "Literally, no joke." He catches Spencer's eye in the rear vision mirror, and smiles ruefully. Spencer can remember him smiling just like that after his mother made them stop, his small face streaked with red and blue and orange and purple, the green swipes and whirls all over his thin brown arms and legs. Just like then, the smile is faintly complicit.

Beside him, Brendon's gone silent, and when Spencer looks away from the mirror, he's staring ahead along the open road. When he realises that Spencer's looking at him, he makes a show of looking surprised, raising his eyebrows. "Well, are you going to get back on the road? We need to drop Ross off and get home. To our house. Where we live."

"If you'll both shut the fuck up, and let me drive in peace," Spencer says. Neither of them respond. He starts the ignition again. "Okay, then."

After that, it's peaceful; even if the silence in the car is sort of resentful, Spencer can almost pretend that this is another long drive through desert road, years ago. That Brent's asleep in the backseat, just behind Spencer's seat and out of sight, and that Ryan and Brendon have only squabbled over the Gameboy and whether Pokemon Gold sucked or not.

He could pretend that, if he wanted to, but the weird thing is he doesn't - not in the sort of way that wants it to be then, not now, for real. There's plenty to like about the present: music he's excited about, the beard he's pretty sure he couldn't have grown back then, regular sex; surfing and his house and his dog.

"We're going to have to stop soon," he says finally. "Gas is low." The desert has faded into dark and murky terra incognita, black against the evening sky. The infrequent flares of brightness from the streetlights are shocking every time now, like slow, regular starbursts of fireworks in the darkness. Every burst brings the quicksilver flash of Ryan's wary eyes in the mirror. "Next station or truckstop."

"Fine," Brendon says loudly. "God, I want to get home."

Ryan doesn't say anything, which is maybe why Spencer doesn't turn off when they pass one. He passes a second, and then a third, and hears the faint hitch in Brendon's breathing as it slides by. He can feel Brendon staring at him. Ryan only seems to notice when Spencer pulls up at the first motel he'd seen a sign on the road for, a grimy little place that seems more like it's used by truckers than traveling families.

When he does, he sits up fast. "What the fuck."

"We're not in Kansas anymore," Brendon agrees, and hums a snatch of Yellow Brick Road.

Spencer laughs under his breath. "We're stopping here," he says firmly. "I've been driving since lunchtime, and I'm fucking tired. Give me a couple of hours to sleep, and we'll finish up."

"We could be home in a couple hours," Ryan protests. "That makes zero sense. Just get a Red Bull or something."

"Okay, much as it pains me, I have to agree with Ross on this," Brendon says, sounding regretful. It's better than Spencer had been expecting; he'd kind of thought Brendon would've started full-out arguing before they even turned off the highway. "Dude -"

"I'm getting a room," Spencer says, pulling the keys out of the ignition and pocketing them. He pushes open the door and starts to get out. "You guys can come in, or stay out in the car, or try finding someone who'll give you a lift."

Ryan and Brendon glance at each other almost automatically, and then let their eyes skitter away.

"Have you ever hotwired a car before?" Brendon asks Ryan, without looking at him. "You must have picked up a few useful tricks from your current crowd."

"I can try," Ryan says, sounding dubious, both of Brendon and the operation at hand. "It can't be that hard. I've seen it done on a couple of movies."

Spencer slams the driver's door shut. "You'll just make a hot mess of my engine and fuck with my insurance. Come on."

"I hate you," Brendon tells him, with a familiar put-upon sigh, but he gets out. Ryan stays fixed in the backseat for another few moments, like a particularly stubborn barnacle.

"This is kidnapping. I'm sure it's illegal in, like, fifty states. At least."

Brendon snickers. "Yeah," he says. "At least fifty-three."

Spencer walks off, and doesn't look back to see if they're following.

-

They get a key for a dumpy little suite, with a double bed barely large enough to be worthy of the name, and a single almost cot-like in width. As soon as they've closed the door behind them, Brendon folds his arms and says "Okay, I backed you up before, but now you have to tell me what the fuck's going on, Spencer."

Ryan frowns, a few steps behind. "He's taking a nap."

"He said he was going to take a nap," Brendon corrects. "Which he could totally have done in the car. He wanted us to stop somewhere for a reason, and it wasn't because rockstars are too precious to sleep in cars."

" _Rockstars_ ," Ryan scoffs. "Wait-"

"Okay, so it is kind of kidnapping," Spencer says, before Ryan can gather himself up enough to start arguing. "It's just that we were nearly back in L.A., so."

"That's not a reason to stop," Brendon points out. "That's a reason to go faster."

"Yeah, but as soon as we got back," Spencer begins, and pauses. It sounds kind of lame. "Look, listening to you guys fight makes me want to drill through my own skull, but at least you're talking, right? For the first time in months, because you're stuck in the same place for once. So I thought-"

"Oh my god, you're a dumbass," Brendon moans, and smacks his knuckles against his forehead. "Spencer. _Spencer_. I thought you had a _good_ evil plan up your sleeve, not a wishy-washy Pollyanna one. This is just a another version of time out."

"Are you trying to lay the groundwork for the big reunion tour in five years?" Ryan asks, over the top of him; Spencer should have remembered how much he hates feeling cornered. "I'm sure you guys are going to need the money, but if I was you, I wouldn't bet on it."

"It'd be over my dead body, in any case-"

Spencer rubs a hand over his chin, feeling the bristles against the undersides of his fingers. "Okay, shut the fuck up. Here's the thing, I'm staying here tonight. With my keys and my car. Which means you're both staying here tonight, unless you team up to get them off me, which I really can't see happening. Either way, I'm kind of going to win."

"Perhaps I underestimated you," Brendon says finally, his dark eyebrows pulling together over the bridge of his nose. "That's almost a diabolical plan, except for how you're using it against me, Spencer. _Me._ "

Ryan grimaces. "Like it's so hard to get the better of you."

"Like you ever have."

"See?" Spencer says. "Cat and dog. Or maybe grade schoolers. Seriously, wasn't the whole reason we broke the band up so we'd stay friends?"

"Yeah, but that was a line," Ryan says, and he sounds almost kind. He tilts his head, curls flopping against his shoulder. "Spencer, that's what we're meant to say. Everyone says that when their bands break up."

Brendon screws up his face, the same bit-on-a-lemon way he did back in the car when he was forced to side with Ryan, his mouth twisting to one side. "Yeah, what he said. It's a nice line, but it's a line."

"Too bad," Spencer says, and makes a point of kicking off his shoes. He grabs the remote and takes a seat on the edge of the double bed; the thin mattress sags alarmingly beneath him. "Ooh, look. Jersey Shore."

Brendon sighs. "Fuck you, man, you know I can't pass that shit up."

"This is hell," Ryan announces bleakly. He glances at the TV, and his face screws up as if Torquemada himself is tormenting him with a hot poker.

-

"They're so _orange_ ," Ryan says a little later, sounding fascinated; the same dreamy wondering tone he used to use in the back garden at Jon's place, when they jammed and smoked up and argued over whether particular clouds were or were not shaped like Alaska. "Like shiny people made out of cheese."

"That's the sinister charm of it," Brendon agrees. "See, and now that guy's wasted again, literally anything could happen. He punched a chick out one episode."

Ryan's eyebrows quirk up. "They showed it on actual television?"

"Reality TV, man," Spencer says. "Seriously, I'm just waiting for the Survivor season when they start ritually sacrificing the people they vote off the island."

"Didn't they do that on Jackass already?" Brendon puts in. He's lying on his stomach on the big bed next to Spencer, with his heels crossed in the air, and he drums his fingers absently against Spencer's forearm. "I swear they did. Totally passé."

"They clamped a guy's balls once," Spencer shrugs. "So maybe."

Ryan makes a grumbling little noise of distaste and muted horror. He's lying on Spencer's left; the mattress on the single seems to have been cunningly confected out of recycled cardboard. Spencer feels like a human buffer zone between the two of them, but they seem to be able to get along okay, like since they're not actually looking at each other they can pretend to be holding conversations with the ether, addressing their remarks to Spencer and to the TV and to the room in general. "They could give them the triple death. Water, fire, air. Or was it air, water, fire? I don't remember, but I know they strangled them."

"Who?" Brendon asks. "Man, you're creepy sometimes, Ross."

"Druids."

"Druids."

"Yup."

They're quiet for a little while; Spencer doesn't want to say anything, in case the fragile peace turns into another argument. He watches the shiny people fight and drink and have hot-tub parties instead, and now that Ryan's made the cheese connection he can't help wondering why they don't start melting into some revolting sort of soup.

Beside him, there's an ominous rumbling sound. "I'm hungry," Ryan says, sounding surprised.

"I'm shocked."

"I was stuck at the campground since morning. And I didn't really bring any food for the next day, I didn't expect to be stuck out there."

"Another shock."

"What Spencer's trying to convey," Brendon explains painstakingly, when Ryan only blinks, "is that you're frequently hungry, Ross. We didn't bring any food either, since we weren't really expecting to make a little angel of mercy trip out into the fucking Mojave."

"Hey," Spencer says, and Brendon gives him another of those steady sideways looks that probably mean something like _he's not your problem._ Or _you should be on my side_. "We did get Wendy's at that place off the highway, on the way out."

"Right, we did. My Baconator was _excellent._ "

"I fucking hate you both."

The groan appears to be deeply heartfelt, and it's accompanied by another ominous roll of nearby thunder. For a skinny guy, Ryan's stomach is disproportionately loud. Spencer sighs and sits up. "Fine," he says. "There are a couple of vending machines in the lobby."

"I guess we'll have to spring for you," Brendon says, getting to his feet, and it's faintly edged.

Ryan's mouth opens to reply, but Spencer gets in first. "You can stay here," he says. "We'll hunt and gather and return with a bunch of Doritos or something."

"Rarrrr," Brendon says, waving his arms stiffly from the elbow, hands shaped into claws. He looks kind of like he's trying to do The Robot.

"Yeah, thanks for the demonstration." Spencer says, tugging on the hem of Brendon's t-shirt. "More cave guy with spear, less bad T-Rex impersonation."

"Fuck you, I'm terrifying," Brendon says breezily, and Ryan watches them both from the bed, his expression schooled into blankness.

"Hurry up, then."

-

"Hurry up, then," Brendon mimics, stalking down the hallway. "Seriously, he could be a little more grateful."

"Maybe he'd be more grateful if you didn't keep rubbing his nose in it," Spencer points out, and Brendon snorts.

"Yeah, he'd totally be falling over himself with thanks. Have you met him? He's pissed that you brought me along, as a witness to his shame or whatever, but even if I wasn't here he wouldn't be exactly Mr Manners."

"Like I had a choice about bringing you," Spencer says, and when Brendon doesn't say anything, he says "Dude, we're kind of a package deal, haven't you noticed? Like I was leaving you behind. The trip would've been boring as fuck, for one thing."

"He only keeps me around for the cheap entertainment," Brendon tells a passing door soulfully, but he bumps Spencer's shoulder with his own.

"You keep figuring out my best plots," Spencer says, slowing down. "Hey, they do have Doritos."

"And Ding-Dongs," Brendon says, sounding pleased. "We can pretty much clean it out. And hey, this one sells toothbrushes and shit." He jerks his head at the other vending machine, which has band-aids and toothpaste and even a tiny sewing kit, a few sad skeins of faded thread and a needle wrapped around a piece of card, dusty and long-untouched. "Look, hey."

Spencer eyes the condoms in the second row, ignoring Brendon's wiggling eyebrows. "Man, I wish."

"We could send Ross to sleep in the car," he wheedles. "I mean, you paid for the fucking room."

"You know we can't."

"No, I don't know." Brendon looks at him, and Spencer looks back, and Brendon makes an exasperated noise and kicks the bottom of the machine. The sewing kit shivers tremulously. "Seriously, Spencer, I don't know why you're doing even half the shit you've done for him today. It's not your problem anymore, don't you get it? Ross can't just, he can't not call or text or anything, and then expect you to pick him up and fucking go out of your way for him just like always, like the past few months-"

"Shut up," Spencer says, closing his eyes. "You're giving me a headache."

"I've _shut_ up," Brendon says. "All day-"

"If that's you shutting up, then-"

"Aaaah," Brendon says loudly. "Take it from me, I have been restrained." He sighs, the air and anger going out of him in one long breath. When Spencer opens his eyes, Brendon's looking at him with that dark-eyed look again, patient and opaque and infuriating. "I just think you're wasting your time," he says, quieter, and rubs Spencer's cheek with his knuckles. "It didn't work when you tried to stay friends with Brent -"

"I just want everyone to talk to everyone again," Spencer says, leaning into it. "If I could put Jon in time out with you two, I totally would."

"No, you wouldn't. Because then he'd team up with Ryan, or better, he'd team up with both of us, and we'd have the manpower to overthrow you and your tyranny. You're kind of turning into your mom, did you notice?"

" _Your_ mom," Spencer says, automatically. "Fuck off." After a moment Brendon takes his hand away.

-

When they get back to the room, they're still quiet; neither of them are in the mood to banter. Brendon's not angry, Spencer's pretty sure, or at least not with him - it's more of the sort of silence you get between two people who have said their piece, and agreed to disagree, like there's nothing more to be said. Their arms are full of junk food, and it takes Spencer a second to shift things around to grab the keycard from where it's clenched between his teeth.

"Hey," Ryan says from the bed. In their absence he's taken up the space in the middle of the bed, sprawled out with the boneless grace of a cat. "You guys get lost on the way back or something?"

"We took the scenic route," Brendon says, mildly enough, and Spencer shoots him a grateful look.

"Doritos," he says. "A bunch of Hostess cakes, Funyuns -"

"Enough to quench even your appetite," Brendon finishes, and lets go dramatically of his armful, letting the packages fall in a rain onto the bed. A bag of Cheetos hits Ryan in the head and grazes off his shoulder. "Ho ho ho, it's Christmas."

"Thanks," Ryan says distractedly, tearing into them. Spencer raises his eyebrows at Brendon, all _you see?_ and Brendon grimaces back in a way that somehow manages to convey his opinion of the massive inadequacy of Ryan's gratitude.

"Move over, Ross, and pass the Ding-Dongs," is all he says, though, and Spencer rummages through the jumble of junk he's still carrying and tosses a couple to him.

"What's on TV?" he asks, putting the rest of it down and settling onto the edge of the bed, trying not to worry about Brendon now being in the middle. "Fuck you, you stole my place."

"Something to do with pet shows," Ryan tells him, around a mouthful of food. "It's weirdly hypnotizing. They've been having a showdown over whether you should declaw your cats. Did you even know people had fights over that?"

"Fas-inating," Brendon drawls, but when Spencer tries to change the channel, he says "No, no, leave it. I think the lady with the blue rinse is going to get physical over this."

Ryan glances sideways. "A pack of Oreos says the one in the cardigan loses it first."

"Deal."

They work their way methodically through the food. Finally there's only a single, solitary Twizzler left, lying innocently on the hideous counterpane like a modern-day apple of discord. Ryan's and Brendon's gazes fall on it at the same moment, and then lift and meet.

"You want it, Spencer?"

"Yeah," Brendon echoes. "Go on. Mm, red rubbery goodness."

"I think I'm done," Spencer has to admit. "Maybe we can put it aside for later."

Ryan and Brendon exchange another calculating deadlock of a stare.

"Okay."

"Fine."

"Great," Spencer says. Onscreen, the credits are rolling, and while they don't actually read _Ugly Overbred Cat #1 - Ugly Overbred Cat #300_ , Spencer feels like they should. "I can't believe you guys just made me watch that shit," he mutters, rolling his head from side to side to work out the kink in his neck.

"Don't lie, you loved it," Brendon says lazily. "Pussy galore."

Ryan actually laughs at that, his deep harsh chuckle, and Brendon grins and rolls over so that he's lying against Spencer and yawns dramatically into his shoulder.

"Can we actually take that nap now? I'm pretty beat, despite all the processed sugar and color additives and everything." Brendon's eyes are half-lidded and his features a little drowsy; Spencer smiles down at him and flicks some hair back from his forehead with a swipe of his thumb.

When he looks across at Ryan, Ryan looks like he's been slapped by something unexpected. Spencer jerks his hand back from Brendon's hair, but it's too late. It's like watching a car crash, slow and irrevocable; before Ryan's face goes all smooth and bland, Spencer watches him putting it together, the exact still moment when it really sinks home, then the connections and wild assumptions starting to spool behind his eyes.

"Oh," Ryan says, a flat little exhalation that's surprised and a little pained, somehow. His gaze shifts from Brendon to Spencer and back again, and his mouth curls up unpleasantly. "Well. Suddenly a lot of things make a lot more sense."

"Hm?" Brendon opens his eyes, but Spencer's not looking at him, can't look away from Ryan.

"It's not," he starts. "Shit, I didn't mean -"

"Yeah, I can imagine why you’d want to keep it on the downlow." Ryan grimaces. "I wouldn't want word of it getting out if I had that sort of bad taste."

"Oh, _fuck you_ ," Brendon says, suddenly getting the drift of the conversation and struggling up onto his elbow. "We didn't have to tell you anything."

"And you didn't," Ryan says, and his eyes flick over to Spencer, accusing. "And you obviously weren't going to."

"Because we don't owe you anything," Brendon hisses. "You're not our problem anymore, so fuck me if I know why we even came to your rescue today."

"I didn't ask you, I asked Spencer. And I did, I did have a right to know what was going on, why you guys went off on your little brainmeld thing -"

Brendon laughs unkindly. "You seriously think - you honestly think that's why we started writing together, don’t you? That that's the only reason why he could possibly have wanted to do something else?" He shakes his head. "Jesus."

"Like I said," Ryan says, brittle. "Things make sense now."

"We weren't," Spencer says, finding his voice finally. "Not back then." Not back then, and not right after; not until their first tour without Ryan and Jon, the strangeness of it.

"Really." Ryan sounds disbelieving. "This is new, is it? Am I cramping your style?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, just as viciously. "Yeah, you are, actually. We had plans."

"We didn't, really," Spencer says, in the middle again despite himself. "We had today off. I mean, we were probably going to get Chinese - "

"And fuck," Brendon continues, eyes hard and completely fixed on Ryan, watching for the flinch he can't quite control. "Grosses you out, huh?"

"Turns my stomach," Ryan says hardily. "Yeah."

"Your loss. I mean, I guess it's a rhythm thing," Brendon says, sounding suddenly contemplative. "But let me tell you, he's good. Beat, pacing - "

"Shut up, Brendon," Spencer interjects. "He's grossed out, leave it."

"And his _mouth,_ " Brendon presses on, goading. "He's good with that, too, you have no idea. Sometimes we just stay in bed and screw all weekend." He watches expression flicker over Ryan's face as he's talking, and Spencer watches it too; Ryan's glaring back, but there's something beneath it, something rawer. _Oh shit_ , Spencer thinks, before he's even put a name to it.

"Yeah, I thought so," Brendon says, and he sounds darkly satisfied. "It doesn't gross you out, does it? You want it. You like the thought of Spencer on his knees."

"Fuck you, Brendon," Ryan grits out, and tries to punch him in the face.

Brendon grabs his wrist and forces his arm down, and kisses him like it's the next move in the fight.

 _Oh shit,_ Spencer thinks again, and watches Ryan go perfectly still for a fraction of a second. Then he starts struggling and squirming, and Spencer's close enough, sitting next to them on the bed, to see Ryan bite, hard and unflinchingly, to see Brendon's face screw up in pain. Brendon doesn't let go or lean back, though, not for a few moments longer.

"Yeah, Ross," he says breathlessly. "Is that how you like it?"

"I really fucking cannot stand you," Ryan says, almost conversationally. His jaw clenches; then he grabs Brendon by the scruff of the neck and pulls him forward. Ryan bites him again, as if he's making a point, and then his head tilts back and they're kissing properly, Brendon's nose crushed awkwardly against Ryan's thin cheek.

When Ryan finally lets him go, Brendon's lower lip is red and puffy, already swelling with blood. He's the one who looks suddenly out of his depth this time, the rasp of his breathing loud in the room. When he catches Spencer's eyes, he definitely looks kind of shaky around the edges, like he's looking for reassurance.

Ryan wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes glinting with satisfaction, and maybe something else.

"Oh, _fuck,_ " Spencer says. "This is really fucked up. Your mouth, Brendon, shit." He reaches out and touches it gently with the very tip of his index finger, scraping it along the curve of his lip. When Brendon's eyes flutter half-closed, he presses a little harder, and Brendon makes a low noise.

Spencer swallows and glances away; Ryan's watching them with his arms folded, a crease between his straight brows. When Spencer catches his eye, he freezes.

"Ryan."

Ryan stares back at him, his eyes round and watchful and brown. He looks like he might just bolt, or like he's afraid Spencer's going to yell at him.

"Can I," Spencer begins, and Ryan jerks his head in a small, awkward nod before he's even finished his sentence.

"Sure."

"I should, I should move, huh," Brendon asks, and scrambles back to sit against the bed frame, pulling his legs out of the way. Spencer moves forward, the mattress spongy and yielding under his knees, and Ryan leans in, close enough that Spencer can see the faded freckles across his nose and the stubble under his fair, close-grained skin. His breath is hot and cold against Spencer's jaw.

"I have no idea what to do now," he admits softly, pressing his forehead against Spencer's. From this angle he's all eyes, vanishing cheeks and distant mouth.

Spencer laughs under his breath, mostly out of nervous energy. "Fuck, me neither."

"Kissing," Brendon says, slapping his hand against his knee. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Mouth to mouth. Come on, it's not rocket science."

Spencer's twenty-two, he's kissed a lot of people. This shouldn't be as much of a big deal as it is in his head, but he hasn't felt this nervous kissing anyone since the first time. Or the first time he kissed Brendon. He'd been pretty sure he was going to get punched out, or fuck up a friendship that was too important to him already, tangled up with work and music and their house and their dog, but Brendon had blinked slowly and then he'd smiled his brightest, most contagious smile and said "Okay, it's like that? Excellent, dude, I'm really glad."

It's not like he and Ryan have anything left to fuck up. He closes his eyes, because somehow that makes it easier, and waits for the soft touch of Ryan's mouth. It feels like he's been waiting a long time.


End file.
